


Recursive Fiction

by echoslam



Category: Marianne (TV 2019)
Genre: Camille POV, Discussion of Abortion, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoslam/pseuds/echoslam
Summary: After the nightmare of Elden, Emma Larsimon no longer seemed like her old self. Camille knew then that it was time to find her voice and lead her back from the edge, away from the ocean and away from hell.
Relationships: Camille & Emma Larsimon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	Recursive Fiction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/gifts).



> Certain details for this were inspired by [an interview](https://bloody-disgusting.com/exclusives/3628345/marianne-creator-samuel-bodin-planned-season-2-netflixs-series-phantom-limbs/) given by director Samuel Bodin in August of this year where he discussed what a season 2 might have looked like had the show not been cancelled.

The drive back to Paris from Elden should have been a long, dreary journey but as she leaned back in the passenger’s seat, Camille’s thoughts were racing.

Never had she imagined that a simple family visit would change them both forever.

At the gas station, she could tell by the look on Emma’s face when she returned to the car that her instincts had been right - Marianne had not left this world empty-handed after all. The actions of Father Xavier may have eradicated her presence from the earth, but in Camille’s mind and in Emma’s body, her darkness still held sway. 

Emma was trying her best to ignore her own distress, keeping her hands on the wheel and her eyes on the road. Words of comfort rose in Camille’s throat, but she couldn’t part her lips to say them. She’d felt virtually paralyzed ever since the witch had taken control of her body, and even the smallest gesture felt like moving through quicksand.

 _Let go of me. Let go of Emma._ She felt the heat of defiance in her blood as she thought the words, but the awkward silence persisted. Her pulse quickened with fear and fury as she briefly considered the possibility that she would never speak again, save for when Marianne wished to use her as a messenger to remind them of the presence of Hell on Earth . 

“So...have you thought about finding a new job?” Emma asked, obviously trying to sound nonchalant.

Camille’s answer was a brisk jerk of her head. _No_.

“Well, maybe you should...it’s not like I’m going to be writing again. That is, nothing any of my fans are going to want to read, or should I say my victims?” Emma’s gaze stayed forward but a distinct sheen betrayed the grief in her eyes. 

Camille bit her lip wordlessly. It was surreal to think about it - she had once been just like Marianne, urging Emma to write at every opportunity. But after all they had seen, it was terrifying to imagine her summoning the evil back to life with her words. Gone was the brash, impetuous Emma of a week ago who got a kick out of sending Camille on awkward tasks like fetching her soft drink cups filled with cognac instead of cola. The woman beside her was a different person now, cold and distantly polite.

When they made it back to the city, she stopped before getting out at the parking space outside of her apartment complex. She held up her phone, showing Emma the message she’d hurriedly tapped out:

 _You can crash at my place for a while_.

Camille’s apartment was a small but serviceable affair, as nice as someone on a junior literary agent’s salary could afford. She had hoped the space would be a comfort to Emma. If nothing else, it didn’t carry the lingering reminder of a bad breakup and a previous encounter with Marianne, but when she saw the state of her living room, she almost kicked herself.

Scattered all around were haphazard stacks of books: paperback editions of _Lizzie Larck and the Intimate Darkness_ set out in preparation for their next signing event.

She remembered seeing the mockup for the cover of Emma’s latest novel, the last in her popular series. In her innocence, she’d thought the image simply depicted a gnarled hand picking up a gangly rose by its stem. Little did she know then that the silhouette she saw was of Marianne holding up her witch’s marker and that the hair-tied sachets of flesh and teeth would come to haunt her in the real world. 

Emma gawked momentarily but shook off any sign of discomfort as she dropped their luggage in the hallway and unceremoniously deposited herself on Camille’s sofa. 

“You said it was okay to stay here, right?” she said as she untied her sneakers and tossed them aside before laying herself down in a huddle. The joviality in her voice sounded forced, but for a moment Camille thought she caught a glimpse of the old Emma, the one who was unafraid of running straight into danger and thought she could do parkour. 

_Goodnight_. Camille willed the words toward her guest as she grabbed her own suitcase and went into her own room and closed the door behind her.

As she started to unpack, the first item that greeted her when she opened the case made her pause.

 _The Molitor Report_.

The thick binding weighed heavily in her hands as she picked it up and brought it over to her desk for closer examination.

Just as she opened the front cover, a slip of paper slid out, white and pristine unlike the crumbling parchment that had hidden it.

Cautiously, Camille reached out and unfolded the missive under her desk lamp. Bold, unkempt handwriting had spelled out a brief message:

_If someone is reading this, it means I failed and am probably dead. Whoever you are, I have a last request: Find Pat, give him this book, and tell him he was right. -Sam Ronan_

An address was written out underneath, a curio shop in a small seaside town, and Camille stood staring at it, blinking back tears as she was struck by the memory of a man who'd fallen victim to the same horror she herself had barely escaped.

  


* * *

  


“So you think your voice will come back after a little retail therapy?” Once again, Emma had taken to making jokes in order to hide her concern.

The first thing that Camille noticed was the shop sign that read “ESOTERIS” in bold letters against the building’s black and red frame. Gravel crunched loudly under their feet as they stepped out of the car and made their way to the entrance.

“What can I help you ladies with? Séance? Tarot cards?” They were greeted immediately upon entering the store. Camille wasn’t sure what she had been expecting - the man looked so normal - not exactly what she envisioned when she’d looked up the shop online and read the description “purveyor of the occult.” 

Her companion made the first move. 

“I’m Emma Larsimon.” The man looked aghast as she held out her hand in greeting. He did not take it. 

“You’re the one with the curse.”

Emma persisted.

“Er, well, maybe?” She flashed a hopeful smile. “Can we talk?”

“No!” Pat’s expression turned dark, and Camille hardly had time to catch her breath as the two of them were grabbed unceremoniously by their elbows as Pat attempted to remove them from the premises.

“Would you like an autograph?” Emma asked cheekily. 

“No thanks.” Pat was just about to toss them out the door when Camille reached into her bag for the book and held it up like a shield.

The shopkeeper stopped in his tracks, no doubt shocked at seeing the storied tome in the flesh. Shock and emotion shook his movements as he reached out for it and carefully took it from her.

“I told him to give it up,” he murmured as he opened the book to the first page to where Camille had left the note. Slowly, they walked back to the counter together and Pat put down the book while Emma explained their situation. Her words came out in an excited jumble, and he stood there taking it all in, shaking his head as she regaled him with their grim adventure.

As their conversation carried on, Camille silently wandered around the store, taking in the peculiar inventory. She saw a withered monkey’s paw next to a sign that warned prospective buyers “Be Careful What You Wish For” and gawked at a unicorn head mounted on the wall that looked almost real. A display of assorted charms caught her eye, and she felt a pang of recognition as she saw a piece that looked like a twin to Emma’s pendant of Saint Dunstan - she hadn’t taken it off since her last day in Elden and it was starting to look as if she never would. Camille checked the price tag. Only two euros. Not bad for something that could save your soul from eternal suffering.

“...so yeah, we’re leaving the book with you, the Inspector left us a bunch of notes anyway, but what I want to know is, do you have anything for someone who could be pregnant, like by a demon?” Pat looked baffled as she stopped to let her words sink in. “Like...something that will take out the evil stuff but leave the human part? Asking for a friend.” After a long pause, he shook his head mournfully.

“Can’t help you there. If you need advice on exorcism, I’d suggest you find a priest.” Emma turned to give her an aggrieved look before nodding in acceptance. Of course fate would have it that the one that could help them would be a man that burned himself alive. 

Pat gave them a silent wave as they left the shop, and Camille nodded in return. Emma stood silent and grim beside her holding a bag with their purchases - a full set of protective amulets and a copy of _Rosemary's Baby_. "Creative inspiration", he'd called it.

Camille was mentally prepared for a silent, uneventful drive home, but as the two made their way down the country road, she was startled to hear a shout from Emma.

“Stop the car!” Camille looked out the window and saw that the only landmark was an old stone church. Emma was already out of the car, running toward the building like her life depended on it. 

Camille followed, nearly trapping her long jacket in the car door as she struggled to catch up. She found Emma just inside the entrance, standing in the vestibule that housed the font filled with holy water.

It all started to make sense now. 

She watched Emma hesitate only for a moment before cupping her hands together and reaching in to bring water to her mouth. 

_She wants to destroy the darkness while protecting the part that’s still her own_.

They both waited as Emma finished the last drop, bracing themselves for the pain and blood and agony they had seen in the past when holy water had been involved. Seconds passed. Then full minutes. No reaction at all.

“It’s what I was looking for at the shop,” Emma murmured before smacking her lips loudly, “Like Evian but mustier.” Her smile was victorious, as she laughed in her relief, and after just a moment’s hesitation, Camille joined in. 

When they returned home that evening, they both slept better than they had in months. 

  


* * *

  


The writer sat at her desk, back straight, face staring intently at the screen, eyes hovering nervously over the keyboard. She had never attempted a project like this before, and she wanted to get it just right. Around her neck hung the icon of Saint Dunstan along with half a dozen assorted others just to be on the safe side. 

She turned her head to look at the woman lying on the bed behind her, hands clasped around a wooden baseball bat inscribed with a cross and the words “God Bless.” Even now, you couldn’t be too careful.

“Do you remember what you told me that night at the bar, before we left Paris?”

Emma looked up at her, a confused look on her face.

“No, was it important?”

Camille nodded decisively, pleased at the chance to be the clever one for once.

“You said adults don’t have friends, only acquaintances. Well, I’m just reminding you that I’m still your friend.”

Emma threw her head back for a hearty laugh as she sat up and reached out to give her shoulder a squeeze, a gesture that made Camille’s heart twinge in happiness.

“Thanks, Cam-Cam.” How long had it been since she’d balked at Emma’s nickname for her? Instead of protesting, she leaned forward out of her friend’s grasp and returned to the task at hand. 

The visit to Pat’s shop had been a reminder to Emma about the curse she could not flee. Whether the holy water had been purge or purification, she couldn’t chance the possibility of being a conduit for evil through her writing once again. 

Camille typed as she dictated, weaving her story with long nostalgic sighs as she remembered all the people she had lost: Caro, her mother, Tonio, Arnaud, Lucie...Inspector Ronan - they deserved a story in a world without witches and ancient grudges, and Emma could hardly stop the words that flowed from her, a eulogy for the fallen. 

She seemed to doze off almost immediately after her closing words, eyelids fallen shut, no doubt tired from all the talking. Camille caught the bat that fell from her hands before it could roll onto the ground. A contented smile graced her lips as she tucked Emma into bed.

 _I already know it’s a masterpiece_.

“Thank you, Emma.” Though her voice was hoarse, the words were her own, and any lingering fears Camille felt were washed away as she felt the arms encircling her neck and a drowsy Emma burying her face in her shoulder with a sob of relief.

“Welcome back.”


End file.
